


on six crooked highways

by halfmoonsevenstars



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars/pseuds/halfmoonsevenstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s ready to turn his attention back to the television when something goes shuffling past his peripheral vision and then plants itself in the cracked seat opposite his, the scuffed and slightly uneven table the only barrier between them.</p><p>She smiles through a nest of frizzy blonde hair just barely contained by the hood of a ratty green parka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on six crooked highways

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during Season 1, Episode 4 of Orphan Black, "Effects of External Conditions". Bits and pieces of Marvel 616 canon crept in to close the gaps that the movies haven't filled yet.

It’s been seven weeks since he hauled the Captain’s body from the water and left it there on the riverbank of the Potomac; six weeks since he’d seen that same face peering out in a Smithsonian half-obscured by the dingy lights of a Metro station; and five weeks and three days since he’d gotten the fuck out of Washington altogether, carrying more questions than he’d started out with. Now he’s tucked into the back corner booth of a run-down diner on the outskirts of Toronto, away from the city proper (all the better, as there are fewer police CCTV cameras in this part of town, and he’s now considered Interpol’s top priority), occasionally sipping from his now-cold mug of acrid coffee or taking a bite of pie as he watches the news on the lone television above the counter. It’s too far away for him to hear, but that’s fine; the crawl at the bottom of the screen is enough, and they’ve repeated the same crop of stories enough times that he can get the gist of it.

He doesn’t think anything much when he hears the bell over the door ring; after all, it’s late, and people have been in and out here all night. _Must be shift change at the factories_ , he thinks out of habit, and shakes himself out of it—this isn’t the industrial part of town, why should he think that? He’s ready to turn his attention back to the television when something goes shuffling past his peripheral vision and then plants itself in the cracked seat opposite his, the scuffed and slightly uneven table the only barrier between them.

She smiles through a nest of frizzy blonde hair just barely contained by the hood of a ratty green parka.

He’s not sure if he knows her—he’s never sure if he knows _anyone_ , not anymore—but he’s unnerved nonetheless. It’s an odd feeling, to be unnerved; he’d thought that he’d lost that somewhere along the line, perhaps. And it’s even odder still that he’s almost comforted by the thought that he still has the capacity to feel things on his own.

He stares back.

Her smile widens until she resembles a shark on the prowl, and she slowly withdraws one of her hands from the parka sleeve in a deliberate gesture—she’s letting him see all of her movements, he realizes, which means that even if he doesn’t know her, _she_ definitely knows _him,_ knows he’s armed and not afraid to make use of it—and reaches for the condiments basket. She pauses at the last second, lifting an eyebrow: _Okay?_

As he’s got absolutely no idea what she could want with it, he shrugs lightly and sits back a bit: _Okay._

He doesn’t know what he’d expected, but watching her rip open four sugar packets in one swift motion and dump them directly into her mouth hadn’t been it.

“Good thing I take it black, then,” he tells her, although she doesn’t appear to be listening; she’s busy crunching on the sugar, clearly savoring it as it melts and washes down into her stomach. He recognizes her expression—it’s the delight and relief of a cold glass of lemonade on a hot day, and he wonders why he recognizes it. He can’t remember ever having had lemonade.

“Who are you?” she asks once she’s finished swallowing, and she fidgets a bit toward the condiments basket again, though she only ends up plucking out a few of the remaining sugar packets and stuffing them into her pockets, all in that same deliberate manner as before.

He shrugs again. “I don’t know.” Nobody could ever accuse him of lying, at least. “Who are _you_?”

She tilts her head; more hair obscures his view of her, but clearly not her view of him. “You are familiar to me,” she says instead. Her accent is thick, but he can understand her just fine, although he doesn’t know why she doesn’t just switch to Ukrainian. He knows that language too. He's found recently that he knows a _lot_ of languages, but with no recollection of having learned any of them.

“I don’t think I know you,” he tells her. It’s refreshing to be honest with someone, after weeks of mumbling his way through all the places that silent intimidation or outright threats couldn’t get him.

“I am Helena.”

“Do you want something to eat?” he asks. “Helena?” The name is thick on his tongue, unfamiliar—that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, though. But he’s got to start somewhere.

She shakes her head. “I only wanted to see if it was you.”

“Is it?”

It’s Helena’s turn to shrug. “Yes. And no.”

“Would—can you tell me anything?”

“The convent,” she says finally, after a long moment of silence.

“The c—“

“It wasn’t one. We were without faith, yet we called it the convent. It was long ago. Twenty years, maybe more. You came to train us.”

 _She can’t possibly be that old_ , he thinks, picking up his fork to eat another bite of pie and mask his confusion. “For…?”

“We were small. Not too small to learn how to be a killer.” Helena smiles that shark grin again. “Do you remember Natalia? Yelena?”

He freezes, the fork clattering back onto his plate. Does he—oh, _god_.

“It _is_ you,” Helena says, and she doesn’t hide her satisfaction. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell. I only wanted to know for sure. I saw you on the street today.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can think of to say.

She reaches over and drags the plate and fork over with just the tip of her index finger; then Helena slides out of the booth and stands, grimacing in pain as she presses her hand to her side. “No saying sorry. I was saved soon after you came. My people found me after they heard of it. Without you, I would not know God.” She plucks the remaining half of his cherry pie from the plate and stuffs it into her mouth.

“You’re going?” He can’t believe he’s disappointed, but there it is.

She chews and swallows before answering—just barely. “I have to meet someone. We have a connection.” There’s red in her teeth, like she’s been gnawing on something raw and full of marrow.

“There are more of you?” he can’t resist asking; he can’t imagine who on earth could possibly have a connection with this woman.

Helena pushes the plate back at him. “Are there more of _you_?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good.” She wrinkles her nose. “The others are only copies. But this one—she can be saved.”

He doesn’t pretend to have any idea what she means by that. “Oh?”

Helena nods, clutching her parka around her thin frame instead of zipping it shut. “You can be, too.”

He’d ask her what that means, but she shuffles out the door without another word, and he isn’t about to go after her.

Instead he asks for another cup of coffee and a slice of pie—blueberry, this time—and says a silent prayer for whoever Helena’s meeting. She’ll surely need it.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is part of a line from Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall":
> 
> "Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?  
> Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?  
> I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains  
> I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways  
> I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests  
> I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans  
> I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard  
> And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard  
> And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall"


End file.
